


Witness

by Arowen12



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Compulsion, Different perspectives, Gen, Happy Ending, Jon Sims is Tired, M/M, On said Time Travel, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arowen12/pseuds/Arowen12
Summary: Jon changes suddenly in a pool of blood and new, old scars, he is different. They watch on the outskirts, from the inside, as things begin to follow suit, quickly gathering momentum, things change.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 51
Kudos: 421
Collections: Download these fuckers yo





	Witness

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, I'm here with another Magnus Archives fic. I've seen a few other Time Travel fics but none that really explored this angle so I hope you all enjoy. Also, apparently all my Magnus fics are one-word titles now. Read on!

1

Sasha glances up from the latest bit of research, one on the property listed in whatever statement Jon is currently occupied with. She’s made five calls in the last hour pretending to be both a hydro company and the government. It is both sad and unsurprising what people will believe even from a private number.

Stretching out her shoulders, Sasha glances around the office, Tim is not even attempting to pretend he’s not playing games on his computer the bright colours splashing off his face and onto his shirt. Martin keeps glancing at him nervously as if Jon or even Elias will appear from thin air and fire Tim on the spot. Unlikely. When Martin’s not glancing at Tim he’s glancing at Jon’s office where the door is firmly shut.

Martin catches her staring and she raises a brow tapping her fingers along the wood of the desk. His expression twists into one of concern and he says quietly, “Jon hasn’t been out all morning, should I bring him some tea?”

Sasha doesn’t mind Martin’s hovering, knows it's just how he shows his affection but she thinks of Jon stomping any hint of that into the ground and shakes her head glancing at her watch she replies, “It’s almost lunch, I’ll see if he wants anything and bring him my research so far.”

“Smart, then he can’t complain,” Tim adds with a chuckle as the faint gargled sound of an explosion crumples out of the computer. Martin flinches before glancing back at Sasha and nods once in agreement with a warm smile.

Sighing, Sasha runs her fingers through her thick hair and rises to her feet, the Archives always seem to loom around her, not burying her necessarily but watching her. As if every scattered statement and every brick pays privy to her every action.

She knocks on Jon’s door, he can be snappish at the best of times and listens carefully for the sound of his voice recording a statement. As much as she has conflicted thoughts about the man, she can’t help but admit that listening to him read is… soothing isn’t quite the right word, calming perhaps? Nonetheless, she reckons he could make a pretty penny if he ever gets into audiobooks.

Hearing no reply, Sasha pushes open the door. Jon’s office is impersonal yet cluttered, books lining each shelve and if not books then boxes and lose files, paper seeming to seep almost porously from every surface. Jon himself is sprawled at his desk, an empty mug at the corner and stacks of statements near his hands.

He’s just sitting there. Staring absently in the direction of the door but his eyes are unfocused, unseeing.

“Jon?” Sasha questions gently and takes a step forward, thinking back to the first time he stumbled out of his office after reading a statement. He looked like a zombie pale and moving in a daze, Martin looked like he was a moment away from calling the ambulance or plying the man with tea. It’s usually like that and by the end of the day, Jon is if not back to normal at least cognizant enough and pliant enough for them to force him home.

At the sound of her voice, Jon tilts his head, his eyes narrow slightly, a furrow burrowing itself between his brow. Shaking his head, Jon attempts to rise slowly to his feet but it’s like his limbs are locked up and he leans heavily against the desk.

“Are you okay Jon?” Sasha asks genuinely concerned; she knows Jon has a habit of working himself to the bone but she’s never seen him this bad.

“I- Sasha?” Jon begins and trails off if possible his eyes go even more distant. He inhales sharply, suddenly and Sasha takes a cautious step forward only to flinch back when Jon’s hand clutches at his forehead and he groans low and pained.

That’s the only warning she has before as she watches holes begin to open up in Jon’s skin, blood trickles from the wounds and Jon collapses to his knees, clutching his forehead. Sasha rushes forward unsure how to act, it’s not like they covered this in basic training, Leitners and cursed objects sure, her boss randomly bleeding? No.

Jon makes a pained sound from deep in his chest as his throat begins to bleed from a cut that appears out of nowhere. Sasha acts, she reaches forward and presses her hand to Jon’s throat unsure if its deep enough to kill as she calls frantically over her shoulder, “Tim! Martin!”

There’s a weak gurgling sound and Sasha glances into Jon’s eyes they are distant and pained, almost glowing in the half-light of the room as the door behind her slams open. She hears someone curse and Martin ask, “Oh God what’s happened?”

“I don’t know, call an ambulance,” Sasha bites back applying more pressure as Jon’s body begins to shake, God she’s never noticed how rail-thin he is, like a good gust of wind could break him in half. Jon cries out a low pained noise like a wounded animal that hurts somewhere inside her chest.

She pulls back slightly and clenches a scream behind her teeth at the sight of smoke curling off of one of Jon’s hands, the skin peeling and burning, turning an inflamed red as his fingers seize sporadically. There are gashes now, joining the circular holes, she can see a long one staining the fabric around his shoulder red.

“What happened Sasha?” Tim demands as Martin appears with a roll of gauze he is out of breath and flushes red staring at Jon like he doesn’t know where to start.

“I’ve called the ambulance they shoulder be here in ten minutes,” Martin gasps out and where one might expect him to panic his features harden like steel and he begins to wrap the worst of the wounds in careful practised movements.

Sasha laughs, it is a broken sort of sound and replies, “I don’t know. I come in and one minute he’s fine, the next he’s bleeding everywhere!”

The door to the office slams open and Sasha spares a glance over her shoulder, it’s Elias his face pale and he actually looks concerned for once. Sasha wonders how he knew as the man demands, “What happened here?”

“He just started bleeding sir,” Tim replies with a frown standing helpless in the corner watching as Jon twitches and groans. His eyes have rolled back into his skull but Sasha can still feel the way he twitches and the blood that’s too warm against her fingers.

“Check his desk please,” Elias orders, Martin and Tim scramble to comply as Elias crouches beside Sasha studying Jon.

“There’s nothing boss, just a statement about someone getting lost in a corridor,” Tim replies digging through the sheets and Martin mimics the response.

“We need to move Jon,” Elias states decisively glancing down at him with a strange expression before he asks, “Martin can you carry him?”

Martin nods and though Sasha can see he is blushing slightly his concern for Jon outweighs any embarrassment. Sasha steps back her breath feels caught in her lungs as she watches Martin carefully loop his arms behind Jon’s shoulder and under his knee.

He lifts Jon and Jon screams. It is a terrible broken sound, not loud, but there nonetheless. Martin’s arms tighten gently around Jon and Elias nods and strides out of the room the rest of them following carefully behind. All she can hear is the scream echoing in her mind and the way blood drips from Jon’s fingers onto the tiled floor of the institute.

The paramedics meet them in the foyer, the green of their uniforms harsh, florescent like gum sticking to Sasha’s hair as she watches them place Jon carefully onto a stretcher. Jon seizes suddenly and then is terribly still. The paramedics bark orders as they load him into the ambulance, the doors shut with a bang and that is the last she sees of Jon for a while.

2

Tim is on watch today; he kicks his legs out against the vinyl floor and shifts in the hard-plastic chair wishing it would somehow magically become more comfortable. Alas, that is unfortunately not the sort of supernatural thing to occur, no instead they have their boss collapsing suddenly with over a dozen mysteriously inflicted wounds.

He sighs and scratches a hand through his short hair before glancing at the figure on the bed. Jon is pale and thin, fragile like he might fade to dust any moment, and even though he’s asleep Tim can see bags beneath his eyes. There are scars, so many of them, but Tim supposes it’s a positive sign that they all healed quickly, little circlets of pale white, the one on his throat, the burn tissue surrounding his hand.

He’s read the Doctor’s report and even they have no idea what to classify it as. Self-inflicted? As if Jon could do any of that to himself. Elias had visited them the day after and in a passive voice stated it was possibly a malevolent supernatural attack. It’s clear Elias doesn’t know either and Tim takes a certain grain of pleasure in that. 

Jon’s chest rises and falls slowly, steadily, and something in Tim’s chest eases at the sight when he thinks of Sasha in tears telling them that Jon’s heart had stopped beating seven times before he stabilised.

Not to mention the blood loss. Christ there had been so much blood in Jon’s office it looked as if he had actually been murdered. A joke about Archivists and blood stews somewhere in the back of his head but Tim can’t place the words on his tongue heavy with the reality of Jon looking so tiny in a hospital bed.

There’s a vase beside the bed, flowers in soft shades of pink, blue, and white which Martin left on his last visit. Tim knows he’s been visiting more than the rest of them sitting at Jon’s beside speaking to him and hoping he’ll wake.

It’s been a week and there’s still no sign, just the rustle of Jon’s breathing and the beep of a heart monitor. Tim won’t say it out loud but he can tell the others feel lost, they’ve all only been working in the Archives for maybe a few months, but Jon’s absence feels stark, abrasive.

They sort through statements and leave the ones for Jon on his desk waiting until he gets back. If he gets back.

Tim shakes his head and pulls out his phone, he’s not like Martin, he doesn’t really believe in the whole talking to a coma patient but he’ll sit at Jon’s bedside and wait. The bright sounds of Candy Crush fill the room and Tim keeps half an eye on the screen and one eye on Jon.

Tomorrow it will be Sasha’s turn, she’ll bring a blanket her grandmother knitted probably and talk to Jon about her recent disaster of a date, the day after that Martin will show up probably with some tea, he’ll make promises, demands, anything. Then Tim again, an endless cycle of the three of them and occasionally Elias, there’s no one else, he’s checked the visitor’s log. It’s sad. Sad but not unexpected.

Tim tucks his phone away with a shake of his head, God hospitals make him morose, he can’t even say why. Maybe it was watching his father slowly succumb to cancer in a similarly off-white room drowned out by the gurney and the never-ending noise.

He reaches into the bag he had brought and pulls out a statement, shakes his head and says, “Martin thinks reading statements to you might help. I don’t know why, but never let it be said I don’t do anything for you, boss. Statement of Sylas Green regarding a break-in…”

Tim finishes the statement with a cough itching for a bottle of water. He glances up at the statement, Jon is still the same just the rise and fall of his chest, the steady blip of the monitors. Tim rises to his feet, he reaches over and pats Jon carefully on the shoulder, “Wake up soon Boss, it’s almost boring without you there.”

He stretches out his legs and tucks the statement back into his bag. He lingers in the doorway for a moment, he can’t quite say why until he hears it, the faint sound of something, fabric, shifting. Tim turns and meets Jon’s eyes, they are _different_ too much, or too little behind them.

“Jon?” Tim asks gently as he turns fully to face the man. Jon is sitting up in the hospital bed, stark against the off-white walls, too stark like reality is soft against his sharp edges.

“Tim?” Jon tilts his head confused and when his voice rustles out it is rough with disuse and hopeful?

Tim steps carefully back into the room thinking of statements and strangers taking the place of a friend as he pulls out his phone and states, “I’m just going to text Sasha, tell her you’re awake okay?”

“Sasha?” Jon’s voice shapes the name strangely as if it doesn’t sit right in his mouth hollowed out and replaced with a different context.

Just roll with it. Tim nods and with a raised brow he continues, “Yeah, she was the one who found you. She’s been really worried. We all have.”

“By all of us you mean?” Jon asks and his voice is strange, stilted, he won’t stop staring at Tim and there’s something inexplicably sad to his expression. For some reason it makes Tim think of staring in the mirror before Danny’s funeral, or his mom talking about his dad.

“Uh, Martin, Sasha, and I?” Tim replies and at this point, he’ll admit he’s a bit confused and certainly plenty concerned. His phone dings and he glances down, Sasha and Martin are on their way which is good.

Jon frowns dragging his fingers carefully over the worn fabric of the hospital sheets before he glances up at Tim and asks, “What’s the date, Tim?”

Something like static buzzes through the words and before Tim can think about it, he opens his mouth and replies, “17th November 2015.”

“Oh,” Jon says soft and quiet and utterly desolate he adds, “Of course.”

“What was that?” Tim demands still tasting static on his tongue and feeling the way the words had been pulled from him like blood drawn through a syringe. Jon’s brow furrows he stares at Tim, stares past him.

“What happened?” Jon asks and the static is less this time, Tim feels as if he actually has a choice whether he answer it or not, he still can’t shake away the taste of static.

“Sasha went into your office to drop off some research, you suddenly collapsed and started bleeding everywhere from all the wounds on your body that weren’t there before. We called an ambulance, your heart stopped seven times, and you’ve been in a coma for a week.”

“Oh, I see,” Jon replies sounding like he does not in fact see. Tim shakes his head but before he can respond the door to the room opens and with it Sasha and Martin. They both stare at Jon for a long moment before they trip inside.

Jon stares at them like a blind man given sight for the first time, his eyes sweep over them absorbing every inch of them and suspending the four of them in a silence thick as molasses. Sasha is the one to break it, she says quietly, “Jon.”

“Sasha,” He replies and the name trembles on his lips, he looks like he wants to surge forward and wrap his arms around her and never let her go. His gaze slides to Martin and his expression softens, melts like ice cream in the sun as he says, “Martin.”

“How are you feeling Jon?” Martin questions as he shuffles carefully over resolutely ignoring how red his face is.

Jon glances between the three of them for a long moment just taking them in before he shrugs, “Fine.”

“Fine? Jon, you were literally bleeding out,” Sasha replies anger slipping over the concern in her voice as she glares at Jon.

He shrugs and replies, “Yes… well, I’m not anymore?”

Sasha looks like she might actually murder Jon (again) and Martin, the saint that he is, interrupts and asks, “Do you know what happened Jon?”

“Yes,” Jon replies with a nod glancing down at his hands for a long moment before he stares at them all again. Tim is getting a bit tired of the sad expression on Jon’s face and wants to make it go away but he’s not sure how.

“And?” Sasha demands, frowning and studying Jon with narrow eyes.

He opens his mouth to respond when there is a knock at the door and the smooth tenor of Elias saying, “Knock, knock.”

Jon freezes, Tim watches it as every muscle in Jon’s body locks up and for a moment Tim can swear that his eyes are glowing before Jon exhales and forces himself to relax. The door swings open and Elias strides inside his eyes locked onto Jon as he continues, “Yes I am curious do you know what happened Archivist?”

Jon and Elias stare at each other for a long moment, posturing like two predators, and Tim can feel the tension filling up the room, can see the way Martin is shifting and glancing towards the door and Sasha is baring her teeth in a scowl.

Finally, Jon shakes his head with something like a rueful smile and says quietly, “Just my past coming back to haunt me.”

“What does that mean boss?” Tim questions crossing his arms over his chest.

John narrows his eyes at Tim for a long moment before he shakes his head, he looks tired, sunken into the hospital gurney as he scrubs a hand over his eyes and replies, “It’s nothing, it won’t happen again. I’ll be okay.”

“That’s not an answer,” Martin protests and Jon blinks nonplussed for a moment, his eyes dart towards Elias who is studying Jon like the hawk studies the field mouse.

“No, it’s not,” Jon replies simply, something apologetic to his expression.

“If you three don’t mind I’d like to have a moment with Jon, let the adults talk,” Elias says all smooth and sinuous, Tim has never said it aloud but Elias Bouchard makes him think of a snake sliding through the grass and sheathing poison behind every word.

Sasha opens her mouth to protest, Tim glances at Jon sees the way he pales grasps the blankets in tight hands before Tim puts on a brave face and steps in front of Jon. Elias’ expression twists to something like displeasure.

“It’s fine everyone, just give us a few minutes,” Jon states, and when Tim glances over his shoulder at the man there is something hard to expression, almost hateful, Tim feels seen. He nods and drags Sasha and Martin into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind them.

They wait in silence for a few seconds before Martin says softly, “Did you see the way he was looking at us?”

“Like we died,” Tim says in agreement rubbing his thumb over a hole in his jeans.

Sasha frowns staring at the door for a long moment before she murmurs, “What do you think he meant about his past? Those scars weren’t there beforehand, concealer doesn’t work like that.”

They all stare at each other for a long moment, thoughts coagulating inside their skulls, theories half-baked and not quite risen from the pan. Martin frowns and cleans his glasses against his shirt before he states, “Whatever it is, I’m sure Jon will tell us eventually.”

Sasha rolls her eyes and glances to Tim who shrugs. He’s not quite certain if his knowledge of Jon is up to date anymore like the man’s gone and changed his software without any of them noticing (what was that with the questions?).

The door to the hospital room creaks open and a moment later Elias walks out. It’s not the confident swagger of before, there’s something _fearful_ to his gaze, he studies the three of them before with a huff he turns and walks down the hallway straightening his suit.

They all try to cram inside the door at once, Sasha the smallest of them manages to squeeze through first and she gleefully claims the seat at Jon’s side. He smiles at the three of them and there is something so _sad_ and yet hopeful to his expression.

“So, I think we need a new filing system,” Jon says softly and waits for the chaos with a smile. Sasha starts lecturing him, Martin is spluttering about the current one working well enough, Tim pulls out his phone and teases Martin.

Jon’s different, he can tell, the way he holds himself is tired and sunken, but it's still Jon and for now, that’s enough.

3

Jon is different. That is perhaps to be expected with the whole suddenly collapsing and profuse bleeding, and certainly on a physical level Jon is different. Martin’s heart practically seizes up in his chest whenever he sees the patchwork of circular scars, the gash over his throat, his burned hand. But it’s not just that either. Jon is always tired, or at least looks like he’s there with dark bags under his eyes, his hair which was threaded lightly with grey before the coma now seems on a quest to overtake the dark roots of his hair.

He walks like he expects to be hurt and when Tim pops up suddenly Jon flinches and Martin can see the way he forces himself to unclench, the way he blinks and reorients himself. It reminds Martin of his cousin, the one that fought in Afghanistan, he would jump at loud noises, had panic attacks, PTSD, and Martin can’t help but draw similarities.

That isn’t to say anything of Jon’s absolutely confounding behaviour. Martin brings him tea, just how Jon likes it with a copious amount of sugar and a dash of milk and Jon smiles at him, at him! Soft and fond with a little crinkle at the corners of his eyes and his voice is full of warmth when he thanks, Martin. It is not helping Martin’s crush in the slightest, maybe he’s always had a thing for being a caretaker and for the surly sort but God Jon is something else.

But to digress, all the abrasive comments, the disgust, the cold exterior has slipped away leaving something achingly vulnerable that Martin only has half a mind on how to handle much less how to adjust to.

He actually leaves his office, which is strange enough on its own. There’s an extra desk and sometimes Jon will bring a few statements out, doing his own supplementary research and when he thinks they’re not looking he’ll have this sad nostalgic little smile that hurts somewhere deep in Martin’s chest.

So, Jon is different.

He’s paranoid, always glancing around his surroundings and Martin is almost certain that Jon doesn’t even leave the Archives, he’s noticed the appearance of a cot in one of the storage rooms but hasn’t said anything yet. There’s also been a sudden influx of fire-extinguishers, flashlights, and things that could only constitute as fire hazardous materials.

Martin is helping Tim unpack one of said boxes, matches, and gasoline peering up at him as Tim asks, “What is this all for, boss?”

Jon tilts his head, the motion strange, sometimes it’s like Jon isn’t in the right body and replies, “Always good to be prepared.”

“Does this have to do with the fourteen Fears?” Sasha asks from her desk where she is flicking through sheets of supplemental information and sipping at a mug of tea with the other. Jon nods and that’s another thing.

Jon just knows things, he’ll ask after Martin’s mom even though he’s never mentioned her before, he’ll supply extra information for a case before Sasha has the chance to research it and when she does it’s right. Sometimes, Jon’s eyes will go distant and then he’ll open the door to the Archives and a statement giver is there standing hunched in on themselves and Jon smiles, it isn’t a particularly nice or comforting smile just a slide of the lips.

Martin is still struggling to wrap his mind around the fact that apparently, they’ve bound themselves to a fear entity, The Watcher, and that there are thirteen others all (or at least mostly all) gunning for an attempt to end the world through rituals. Rituals which apparently Gertrude Robinson has spent her whole life stopping (at the cost of her assistants Jon murmurs this with a dark expression and promises that he won’t do the same, he tells them he trusts them).

He may or may not have had a few panic attacks at home holding his latest knit close to his chest and just trying to adapt. Martin’s always been adaptable but he feels fair in saying this is a far different situation from accepting the supernatural exists.

The others seem to agree, Sasha studies Jon with equal parts concern and suspicion and Martin can’t even blame her, he’s seen the way Jon looks at her; like she’s already died. Tim flops between joyfully bright like it was their first day in the Archives and silent and sullen with the knowledge that the only way to get out is to kill Jon or blind themselves; they’re all just tigers pacing their cages.

Martin isn’t sure where he falls, he brings Jon cups of tea, savours his warm smiles, and waits, and waits. They can all feel that something is coming, that whatever strange peace they’ve managed to accumulate is quickly running out. All they have to do is watch Jon check the fire extinguishers over and over again for confirmation.

Jon stumbles out of his office one day he is itching at the circular scars dotting his skins, almost unconsciously, and his gaze surveys the room for a long moment before centring on Martin he says softly, “Martin can you please do some supplemental investigation for this statement,” he proffers the statement and Martin reaches out and carefully scans over it, Jon watches him and his eyes are intense glowing almost in that way that none of them talk about as he continues, “Don’t go back, just check it out once alright? I just want to confirm my suspicions.”

“You think it has to do with the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss?” Martin questions glancing down at the statement once more with a frown and trying to ignore the shiver building up at the base of his spine.

Jon nods his lips pinched and his gaze is distant, sometimes it's like he’s not even with them. Sasha leans around her computer and asks, “Isn’t she affiliated with filth?”

“The Corruption. Yes, be very careful Martin, all of you,” Jon replies and nods once before turning to head back to his office, he pauses in the doorway a hand lingering on the arch as another scratches at his scars and adds, “If you’re being followed go to the Institute immediately, for the most part, it’s protected.”

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. They all sit in an ominous silence for a long moment before Tim scowls and asks, “For the most part?”

“I suppose even the Eye can only do so much,” Martin replies with a shrug as he packs the statement into his bag and tugs on his coat glancing around the room for a long moment before he adds, “Do you think I should bring a fire extinguisher?”

Sasha and Tim share a glance before Sasha replies, “There are a few small ones in the Corruption section.”

Martin tucks it into his bag and exits the Archives. The intense feeling of being watched fades somewhat as Martin boards the tube but for once the lingering sensation of it is almost comforting.

The basement is unsurprisingly normal, it’s a relief and Martin almost doesn’t notice the pale white worm until it squishes beneath his shoe. He glances slowly down at the worm and then around the basement and still there is nothing.

At least, there’s nothing until he’s a few feet away from his apartment and he catches sight of a few of them wriggling outside his door. Great. Martin sighs and adjusts his backpack; the fire extinguisher is heavy. He weighs his options for a long moment before he turns and heads towards the Institute.

Light filters out from under Jon’s door, warm and almost inviting and Martin pauses on the outskirts of that light reminded of a few months ago, he hesitates and then thinks of Jon’s warm smiles and knocks on the door. Jon’s voice echoes beckoning him inside and Martin follows through.

Jon’s office is if possible, even more of a mess since the last time Martin saw it, there are statements littering practically every surface and a corkboard with red string adorns one wall. Jon is slumped across his desk the fingers of his burned hand curled loosely around a mug of tea that Martin brought in after lunch.

With a groan, Jon tilts his head up and blinks, languid and slow like a cat, before he shuffles awkwardly to his feet banging his knee against the desk with a curse even as he says, “Martin, you’re okay. They didn’t follow you, did they?”

Before Martin can blink Jon is in his space, which is another different thing, his hands warm where they grasp Martin’s shoulders staring up and into his eyes. Martin blushes and nods as he chokes out, “I’m okay, some of the worms were waiting at my apartment I thought it would be safer to just come here.”

“Good idea,” Jon says warmly and steps back running a hand through his tangled hair as he adds as an afterthought, “No I don’t suppose leaving her alone was ever an option.”

“Jon?” Martin questions softly and Jon’s shoulders tense for a moment before he exhales and turns back to face Martin his expression soft and fond.

“You can stay at the Archives, for now, I’ll see what we can do about your apartment,” Jon says and Martin opens his mouth to protest but before he can Jon adds, “Come along there’s a cot in the storage room.”

“What about you Jon?” Martin questions and bites his tongue immediately afterwards.

Jon tilts his head confused for a moment before he nods and replies, “I think my apartment will be fine. Come along, you should get some sleep, Martin.”

Jon’s hand is warm around his wrist where it tugs Martin out of the office and he can only follow along with something warm in his chest as he watches Jon. There’s still a prickle of fear about Prentiss but for the moment Martin knows he’s safe.

Jon may have changed but Martin can’t say it wasn’t for the better.

4

The entity known as Michael, the one that is, and isn’t Michael, is curious. This is not an unusual thing for it to be, after all, what is life without a bit of curiosity, and really curiosity and it has a great relationship. After all, it is more often than not a curious human that opens a door that wasn’t there before.

It is getting lost. That is rather the point though.

It is curious about the Archivist. Particularly the new Archivist. Michael was _happy_ when Gertrude Robinson finally passed out of this world and yet at the same time a part of it, that naïve part that trusted her, was s _ad_. Michael likes confusion but it does not like this type of confusion, it does not like being and not being.

Where was it? Ah yes, the Archivist.

Michael saw the Archivist when he was first promoted, a short mousy man with none of well everything Gertrude was, still achingly human, and deliciously afraid. Michael loses interest quickly, there is other prey to pursue, other doors to open and close.

When Helen visits the Magnus Institute, Michael returns its interest to the Archivist and it is surprised. Gone is the mousy man spluttering like a weak candle flame, there is something new to the Archivist or maybe old, lies wrapped like bubble wrap around him.

Just as its prey wraps her fingers around the door the Archivist tilts his head and says, “Let her go Michael.”

Oh?

Helen escapes but Michael does not care, it will find her later, it always finds its prey. Instead, it steps out of the door and into the Archivist’s office, and closer it can see that the Archivist is marked. Michael has marked the Archivist; it does not remember that but it can see it nonetheless. Just like it can see the eyes covering the Archivist’s skin, watching it, studying it.

“You Know me,” Michael says curiously drifting forward to loom over the Archivist. His eyes flick to ~~not~~ Michael’s hands for a long moment before he nods, short and simple. Michael laughs the sound seems to bounce in the office, it is familiar to it but Michael ignores that, it has gotten good at ignoring that.

“Yes,” The Archivist responds and then adds, “Michael, the Distortion.”

“Did Gertrude tell you about me?” Michael questions and the words sit heavy in its ~~not~~ mouth, bitter and acidic threatening to burn holes through it again.

“No,” The Archivist replies simply with a shake of his head and Michael frowns and tilts its head studying the Archivist who adds, “Would you like to Know?”

“Depends on what the cost is Archivist,” Michael states lacing its fingers together, the Archivist watches the motion with a faint grimace, old remembered pain.

The Archivist studies Michael for a long moment before he replies, “When Jane Prentiss attacks the Institute, I’d appreciate it if you would help.”

“The Corruption?” Michael questions and the Archivist nods his head. It considers it for a long moment before it nods and adds, “I will help you, Archivist.”

The Archivist’s shoulders slump slightly and he exhales for a long moment before his eyes centre on Michael, the weight of the other Eye, the other Avatar disappears suddenly as the Archivist says, “A ritual succeeded, the Eye’s ritual.”

Hmmm. Michael tilts its head studying the Archivist and thinking about a world where the Eye rules over everything. It feels ambivalent at best, what does the Eye care if the Spiral continues to hunt.

The Archivist frowns scrubbing a hand over his human eyes before he continues, “It was the end of everything, a fixed circuit, humanity, the avatars, and then even the entities.”

Oh, that’s not quite as pleasant as Michael was hoping, as far as it can hope anyway. It stares at the Archivist before it smiles and states, “So, you came back.”

“Yes,” The Archivist replies and the single word is broken, a husk of everything he has experienced. Michael doesn’t particularly care but the word lingers with what remains of its ~~not~~ humanity.

“You’re going to stop it I suppose,” Michael adds folding its limbs, too much, too long, into a chair and watching the Archivist intensely. He nods glancing warily at Michael before his gaze surveys his office, what was Gertrude’s office.

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t hurt Sasha,” The Archivist adds steepling his fingers in front of his chest and all his eyes are on Michael, it feels seen, known, it does not like it. Michael can sense the Archivist’s powers, far more powerful than the other avatars. The Distortion thinks this will be very interesting.

“The assistant?” Michael asks and the Archivist nods, it continues, “Can I have Helen then?”

“You may not like the results Michael, or maybe you will, you weren’t really clear on it,” The Archivist replies with a shrug staring at Michael for a long moment. It hums and rises to its feet looming over the Archivist.

“Goodbye Archivist, I suppose we’ll be seeing more of each other,” Michael states, then it is gone.

5

The Archives are quiet, they were quiet before, the first time Melanie visited, but this time the silence is less like a library and more like a tomb heavy and oppressive. Still, Melanie squares her shoulders, even a somewhat hostile silence has never been enough to stop her, the same could certainly not be said for her team.

She pushes away the bitter tinge the thought brings and walks down the hallway, at the far end she can see two men in dark blue moving uniforms carrying a table between them. Or what remains of a table Melanie supposes, it looks like there might once have been a design inlaid in the surface but it is wiped clean and threaded with cracks that split the thing near in half. One of the delivery men, grunts as they pass her and Melanie watches for a long moment as they disappear the way she had come.

Squaring her shoulders, Melanie pushes the door to the main office open. Inside, it is quiet but for the faint hum of technology and air rustling through the vents, she can see the three assistants from before at their desks. The large one, Martin if she recalls correctly, has a bandage wrapped around his forehead and others around his arms and is frowning at a blank piece of paper, beside him the other male assistant is studying his arms with a frown where Melanie can see yet more bandages. Sasha, the female assistant who walked Melanie in the first time is sitting at her desk with a phone pressed to her ear she waves her fingers in Melanie’s direction.

“What happened here?” Melanie questions observing the rather chaotic state of the place, more chaotic then when she first visited, if that is at all possible. Shelves are crumpled against each other and Melanie is certain she sees blood on the floor.

“Infestation,” Tim, the other assistant, says scrunching his nose and glancing suspiciously at the walls.

Martin sighs crumpling up the sheet of paper and adds, “It could have been a lot worse at least we were prepared.”

“Is that why all the ambulances were here? It even made the news,” Melanie says thinking of the article on her phone about Co2 poisoning and speculations on the Magnus Institute.

Sasha nods setting her phone on her desk she rises to her feet carefully and replies, “Yeah, it was all a bit of a mess, but at least Prentiss is gone.”

“Amen to that,” Tim adds with a roll of his eyes before adding, “All the worms were starting to bug me.”

“Tim!” Martin says and reaches over to playfully swat him on the shoulder.

“Come on, I don’t think Jon’s recording any statements right now, I suppose you’re here to make a statement?” Sasha asks glancing at the closed door for a long moment with a strange expression, concern mixed up with something else before she adds, “He might be a bit snappish being investigated for murder and all that.”

“Murder?” Melanie asks, that part of her that is endlessly curious about the supernatural rears its head with sudden viciousness.

Sasha huffs adjusting the glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she replies, “Martin was unlucky enough to find Gertrude Robinson, the previous Archivist’s, corpse during the infestation. They’re trying to pin it on Jon, but he’s innocent. Come on, he said he was expecting you.”

Melanie doesn’t comment on that and follows Sasha through the office until they pause outside Jon’s and she raps on the door. After a moment his voice calls out, “Come in.”

The office, if possible, is even more of a mess then it was the last time she came, its as if a hurricane has whirled through the room scattering sheets of paper every which way. At the centre of said hurricane, is Jon Sims staring blankly into space before he blinks and his gaze focuses on Melanie.

“Thank you, Sasha, Ms. King a pleasure to see you again. You have another statement for me,” Jon’s voice is rich, the kind of thing she could listen to for hours though she’ll vehemently deny it. It’s a statement in of itself, not a question, and Melanie nods and bites her lip.

Jon, for lack of a better word, creeps her out. He just knows things, things about her that he shouldn’t know. Oh, he’s all very kind about it but there’s still no way for him to know the things that he does. Also, whenever he looks at Melanie, he just looks s _ad_ like she reminds him of someone he’s lost. She doesn’t know Jon Sims.

She settles in the chair which is at least comfortable as the door slips silently shut with a click leaving the two of them alone. Up close, Melanie can see the same circular scars from last time and she can’t help but compare them to the ones the assistants outside bare and asks, “Are the scars some kind of cult?”

“What?” Jon asks confused for a moment before he glances at his arms and shakes his head before replying, “No, I’ve just dealt with this sort of infestation before, unfortunately. It’s alright, or well I think it is, they all seemed rather accepting about the whole thing,” Jon pauses as if realising who he is talking to and smiles apologetically, “But you’re not here to hear me ramble about workplace politics. How can I help you, Ms. King?”

She blinks nonplussed for a moment before she frowns and says, “I suppose I have another statement for you.”

“Of course, Statement of Melanie King regarding…?”

“War Ghosts,” She supplies and he nods.

“Statement begins…”

Melanie’s found it’s surprisingly cathartic to give a statement, like some low-budget therapy, and sure she’s relieving the fear again, the rickety old train car, the smell of mould and old blood, but its distant, she knows she’s safe here. However, strange it seems.

Jon watches her the whole time his eyes are intense, she can’t look into them for fear that she’ll get trapped there. At night when the nightmares linger sometimes, she sees what she thinks is him looming in the corners of her dreams. She finds she almost doesn’t mind.

“I see, very interesting,” Jon says when she’s finished jotting down a few words, she sees Slaughter and the End underlined.

“You believe me?” She asks crossing her arms over her chest, he wasn’t quite doubtful last time but certainly dismissive. Perhaps he had been occupied with the infestation or whatever it was.

“Yes of course, and I suspect you want to do further research,” Jon replies and again it’s not a question just a statement. Melanie nods and he hums shifting through a few forms as he says, “Usually you need the proper credentials for the library, or at least what you’re interested in but you should be fine with this note.”

“Thanks,” Melanie says surprised that he’s handing it over so easy. The sheet of paper is slightly crinkled in her hands and she can see Jon’s crunched sharp script, she glances up at him and catches that sad expression again.

“If you do decide to do some real-world investigating please be careful,” Jon says with a smile and then adds, “And I’d appreciate it if something does happen that you give us a statement about it.”

“Sure,” Melanie says itching to delve into the library she rises to her feet and slings her bag over her shoulders. She pauses in the doorway her damnable curiosity making an appearance again as she asks, “What was up with the table the two movers were carrying?”

Jon blinks for a moment before he smiles, it is not a particularly nice smile and says, “Just a case of the wrong location, they really should have known better. I think they do now.”

Cryptic.

Melanie nods and lets the door shut behind her, the three assistants move seamlessly to act as if they weren’t watching the door and she rolls her eyes and asks, “Can anyone show me the way to the library?”

6

Basira does not like the Archives, she doesn’t like the Magnus Institute either. As a sectioned officer she can respect what they do, the catharsis they offer to the victims, she knows of a few officers sectioned and not who treat it like therapy.

She doesn’t hate the Archives. It’s an important distinction. Basira likes knowledge, she’s always wanted to know, she remembers being a kid and digging through book after book in the library during recess. A part of her likes that option, to research, to know, to have an answer for some of the things she’s seen.

Basira isn’t certain how she feels about Jon Sims. The first time she met the man, in the aftermath of Prentiss and what has been colloquially dubbed the infestation, he looked small, thin like a harsh breeze would knock him over.

Then she saw the scars, not just the ones from the worms (which were already scarred over compared to his assistants), the burnt hand, the gash over his throat, and the way he looked at her. Like he knew her, saw right through her and into the core of what made her Basira.

Daisy had let out a low growl, scenting the air almost imperceptibly in that way she often did on sectioned cases and her eyes had narrowed on Jon Sims. Whatever Sims was, Basira doubted he was human.

Still, he’s practically their only suspect and their only lead. There’s not much of a motive, according to the other assistants and Sims himself had only met Robinson once and while a promotion isn’t the most far-fetched motive, the man looks far too exhausted and the pay raise is apparently meagre.

Basira supposes that if no leads turn up, they’ll call it a cold case and move on.

She has a hunch that those who work in the Archives already know who killed Gertrude Robinson and it wasn’t Jon Sims. Her hunches aren’t usually wrong.

The Archives are a weird sort of climate-controlled temperature that is probably at the perfect temperature to preserve important documents. Basira knows it is just a touch uncomfortable as she moves through the dank basement.

The door creaks open to the main office and she stands in the doorway for a long moment observing, just one of the assistants is in, the broad one with a kind smile, Martin, anxious but eager to help. He glances up at the door and smiles warmly in greeting as he says, “Detective, Jon said you would probably be stopping by. How can I help you?”

“I’m not a Detective,” Basira protests before with a shake of her head she adds, “How did Sims know and is he in?”

“No, I’m afraid not and that’s Jon’s thing, knowing,” Martin says with a tinge of regret, his phone trills the screen lighting up and he glances at it for a moment before adding, “He’s on his way back from the airport though, so you’re more than welcome to wait.”

“The airport?” Basira questions sharply, there was no sign the man had even departed the continent.

Martin frowns for a moment biting his lip before he adjusts his glasses and responds, “Yes, he took a short trip to America, a promise to an old friend apparently.”

“An old friend?” Basira questions crossing her arms in front of her chest. Martin frowns, she’s noticed that all of the assistants are oddly protective of the man. Daisy would probably grunt something about small animals but Basira wonders if it isn’t something else.

“Jon didn’t clarify, I expect he thought we would know,” Martin replies with a regretful sigh and a sort of a ‘what can you do’ expression. Basira raises a brow and Martin sighs and expands, “Sometimes Jon just expects us to know things, he’ll ask about research for a case we haven’t heard of and then act confused when we don’t. Sometimes I swear he’s living ten steps ahead of everyone else. We’ve been a bit busy lately I’m afraid, trying to stop an apocalyptic ritual and all that so he’s been worse than ever.”

“Apocalyptic ritual?” Basira asks carefully and watches as Martin blanches and then glances at his hands.

“It’s a bit hard to explain really, supernatural fear entities a whole bunch of them and they all like to attempt these rituals to end the world. Jon says we technically don’t need to stop this one or really any of them, something about destined to fail, but in his words, it will be ‘cathartic, revenge, and lots of fun’ I worry about him sometimes,” Martin finishes shaking his head like a spouse talking about their partner’s actions.

Basira pauses for a moment to consume all of that before carefully asking, “And this ritual will involve murder?”

“The end of the world,” Martin replies with a nod and then continues, “Course I don’t think you can count the things as human so is it technically murder?” he shrugs as if he can’t devote the time to that thought and finally finishes, “Tea?”

Basira shakes her head, silence sits between them for a long moment, it isn’t a particularly unpleasant silence.

Finally, Basira uncrosses her arms and questions, “Who killed Gertrude Robinson?”

“It wasn’t Jon,” Martin protests with a bit of a scowl.

“I’m beginning to see that, so who was it?” Basira says studying the man in front of her.

Martin glances around for a moment with a frown before saying quietly, “I don’t know if he’s distracted.”

“Who?”

“Elias Bouchard,” Martin mouths the words, doesn’t even say them but the pure fury on his face is startling in its sudden appearance and Basira barely grasps the name. She frowns and nods considering it for a long moment, Bouchard is an unknown and if he is guilty, she’s certain the case will go cold, too many fingers, in too many pies.

The door to the office creaks opens beside her and she turns and watches first the assistant Tim step inside followed by Sims. He looks tired, exhausted is perhaps a better word for it, with deep bags under his eyes and a gait not dissimilar to a zombie from a cheap horror flick.

The man blinks and his shoulders straighten suddenly, it is the sort of set of a terrible burden that has bent the man before her like iron but not broken him. Jon turns his head and with a fond knowing smile greets, “Detective, what a pleasant surprise.”

It does not sound at all like a surprise.

Basira nods with a pressed smile and says, “I have a few questions if you don’t mind Mr. Sims?”

Stoker opens his mouth to protest stepping forward almost protectively in front of Sims and out of the corner of her eye she can see Martin twitching to do the same. Sims waves them both off with a shake of his head.

“It’s fine, I’d be happy to, why don’t we go to my office? Martin if you could prepare some tea? I’ve rather missed it this past week,” Jon says and when he glances at Martin his gaze is fond and warm. Martin blushes and nods and Basira almost feels nauseous at it and she can see Stoker rolling his eyes with a groan.

“This way Detective,” Jon says with a tip of his head and she follows him into his office. It’s a mess of paper, shelves near breaking under the weight of stack upon stack, books, and boxes. Sims slides into his desk chair with a groan and as he pulls out a book from his bag he says, “Sorry, I’m still a bit jetlagged.”

“Martin said you were visiting an old friend?” Basira questions as Jon’s hands rest idly over the cover of the book, smooth leather, no title.

He tilts his head and hums for a moment before he replies, “I suppose that’s one way you could put it. What can I help you with Detective?”

“Did Bouchard kill Robinson?” Basira asks before she can really think about it.

“Yes,” Jon replies simply staring at her for a long moment, “Though it would be in your best interest to say the case went cold, Elias is not a man to be trifled with lightly,” There is something dark to the features of the man across from her.

“What should I do?” Basira questions watching the man carefully.

He shrugs and replies, “It’s not my position to tell you, I know you’ve been considering quitting the Police force, I can’t tell you whether that is the right or wrong decision. I would only say that it isn’t wise to join the Institute at the moment.”

“Why?” Basira demands, wanting to know even as she considers the man’s words. He’s right, she has been considering it for a while but Basira isn’t certain if it’s the right choice. A part of her nonetheless doesn’t want to disappear, just a cover-up under section.

“I suppose it is a bit like a cult in that respect,” Jon says almost to himself before he replies, “The Entity that governs the Institute does not allow those that sign an employment contract to leave. Not without extreme measures,” Basira frowns her expression pinched and Jon adds, “Don’t worry my assistants are well aware of it.”

“Thanks,” Basira says shortly and rises to her feet just as the door opens and Martin appears with a steaming cup of tea, the faint scent of green tea perfuming the air. He smiles at Basira and sets the cup before Jon.

“Detective,” Jon begins as she hovers in the doorway, he continues, “When you go after Maxwell Rayner bring torches, and lots of light sources. Oh, and my door is always open.”

Basira nods and flees the office but no matter how far she gets from the Magnus Institute she still feels as if she’s being watched. It’s only in their shared apartment as Daisy tugs her into a hug that the sensation fades.

7

“You knew this would happen, Archivist,” Helen says as it steps out of the doorway, the last traces of what was Michel cling like cobwebs to its skin but it shakes them off and flexes the long shards of its fingers.

Jon blinks at it (her, it, it is a her or is it an it?) he is tied to a chair, thick ropes binding his arms and there is a blindfold over his human eyes, but his Archivist's eyes watch it, all the same, his skin seems to glisten in the faint light of the bulb overhead.

“Yes, I did warn you,” Jon says softly, in the distance Helen (and Helen is a much better fit than Michael) can hear the faint stirrings of a calliope. It will not be long before Nikola will notice Helen’s presence and come to check on the Archivist.

“I should kill you,” Helen says but its actions do not follow the words that leave its mouth as it slices through the rope binding the Archivist’s arms.

Jon carefully rubs feeling into each arm before pulling the blindfold off and blinking rapidly at the sudden influx of light as he responds, “You could, but then Jonah Magnus will just start again with a new Archivist.”

“And we’d both prefer a world not ruled by the Eye,” Helen replies with a frown, or what amounts to a frown in this form, it knows what a frown is and yet also knows that her features aren’t quite right, off, incomplete, or maybe just incorrect.

Jon nods and Helen hums and opens the door behind her a corridor stretching out endlessly behind it as it says, “After you dear.”

“Thank you, Helen,” Jon says and when he smiles at it, the smile is real, fond, and very different to the smile ~~not~~ Michael received from the Archivist. Interesting, very interesting and also quite curious. Helen will wait to kill the man.

8

Georgie opens the door, it is sometime after three in the morning and she’s not sure what she’s expecting to see, maybe Santos across the hall is drunk again and forgot his keys (he’s given Georgie a spare key for cases such as this) or maybe it’s Garcia from the third floor needing to borrow flour because she’s high and wants to bake.

When she opens the door, Georgie does not expect to see Jon Sims staring back at her. She stares for a long moment just takes him in, there’s a lot to take in, new scars, too many, little pockmarks like he had a run-in with the eighteenth century, his hand looks like it’s been dipped into a vat of acid, and it’s apparent that someone has tried to kill him or at least threatened him in the last few years since she saw him.

Jon stares at her with those eyes she could never resist and says quietly, “Hi Georgie, I know it’s been a while.”

“That’s an understatement, Jon. Come in, you can explain later,” Georgie says and this is familiar in a nostalgic sort of way as she steps back. Jon’s shoulders drop and his expression smoothes over into something warm as he follows her inside, she adds, “I have leftover pizza want a slice?”

“Please,” Jon says and it is quiet, broken, lost. It twinges somewhere in her chest, reminds her of Jon drunk off too many shots of tequila and sobbing into her shoulder, guilt and grief making choked noises in his throat.

A short meow distracts both of them as the Admiral pads out of Georgie’s room likely disturbed by all the noise, he looks miffed at the disturbance of his beauty sleep. Jon smiles, he looks like he honestly might cry, as the Admiral twines around his legs with a series of soft chirps.

Georgie shakes her head and plods into the kitchen digging the pizza out of the fridge and slapping it into the microwave. She watches through the doorway as Jon settles gingerly on her ratty old couch and the Admiral perches on his lap demanding attention.

This Jon feels like a stranger and yet she knows him. Of all the people in Jon’s life, of which there are few, she’s always been one of the select few who got to see him.

The microwave beeps and she pulls out the pizza divvies the slices onto her plates from her mom’s house and brings them out. She passes the bigger slice to Jon and he takes it with a grateful smile. For a moment, there is silence just the two of them eating their pizza and the Admiral watching their movements as if contemplating whether he wants to try and steal it from Jon.

With a sigh, Georgie sets her plate down, Jon is still eating, he eats slow and in small bites like a bird, she asks, “What happened? You don’t show up out of the blue for no reason.”

“I’ve been temporarily accused of murder,” Jon replies with a shrug taking another bite and glancing at her from the corner of his eyes, he looks tense, like he might flee at any moment and Georgie doesn’t know why.

“Did you kill whoever it is?” Georgie asks carefully, reaching out to run her fingers through the Admiral’s soft fur.

Jon’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head rapidly for a moment before he slumps setting the half-eaten pizza on the table he admits, “No. My boss did. It’s a bit hard to explain though.”

“We’ve got time, and well you know I’ve probably heard stranger,” Georgie replies reaching out to eat what’s left of Jon’s pizza.

He stares at her with wide eyes for a long moment before he nods and says, “Maybe save your questions to the end it might make this easier. There was a man living under the Institute, Jurgen Leitner, he collected esoteric books, like… like Mr. Spider. And he-he well he was a stupid old man. Elias got to him, with an axe this time, left his corpse in the Archives. I should have seen, should have known, but I kept putting it off and now-“

“Jon hey focus,” Georgie says softly cupping his cheeks gently, his eyes flutter and he leans into the contact for a long moment (she can’t help but wonder how touch-starved he is). He nods sucking a harsh gasp of air and pets the Admiral for a long minute.

“Well to summarize I’m the main suspect, though I suspect Basira and Daisy will classify it as another cold case,” Jon finishes picking at the scars on his hands before he glances up at her so hopeful.

“And you need somewhere to lay low for a few days?” Georgie asks with a raised brow as she carefully leans her shoulder against Jon’s.

He nods and adds, “If it’s not too much trouble?”

“I have a spare room,” Georgie agrees, stroking her fingers lightly over Jon’s hands, he shivers and all the tension coiled up in his body flees all at once and he sinks into the couch cushions with a long, tired sigh.

“What’s going on Jon?” She asks carefully, knows there’s more to Jon’s story than just presumed murder.

One eye flicks open to peer up at her as he asks groggily, “You believe in the supernatural right? ‘Specially after that thing in first year.”

“Yes, of course. How did you? I never told anyone that story Jon,” Georgie demands, she doesn’t feel fear but she can still feel the way her breath is caught in her throat.

“I know, you haven’t told me yet, but you did tell me or you will, or you have, it’s so confusing Georgie, there’s so much knowledge, so many memories,” Jon replies leaning further into her side, so sad and tired, each word dripping from his lips heavy with a weight she can’t see.

“It’s okay Jon,” George says and it isn’t, not really, but when it comes to Jon you tell him things for his own good.

She runs her fingers through his hair and he sighs and continues, “There are these different fears, and they’re manifested into these entities who don’t inhabit our world kind of like Earth is an almost waterproof window and there are drops that still get inside. You met one, the End, Death. And these, servants, avatars, whatever want to enact rituals to bring their fear in, all the water flooding everything. ‘Cept it’s not actually possible unless you bring in all the fears at the once. To do that you’d have to have someone, I don’t know if it has to be an Archivist, touched by all the fears. I did it. I brought about the Apocalypse but that was the past, the _not_ future. Now, now I have to stop Elias from doing it again.”

Georgie is still for a long moment trying to process _everything_ , the end of the world, Jon’s involvement (and she knows he didn’t want to, that he was coerced, manipulated, somehow into it). She strokes her fingers through his hair as the Admiral begins to purr, Jon is shaking tears trailing silently down his cheeks as he whispers, “It’s too much, there’s too much. What if it happens again?”

She leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead, wipes away the tears with a gentle thumb and says, “It’ll be okay Jon.”

He seems to believe her, or maybe the moment of vulnerability has passed as he nods still curled up against her side and tangles his fingers with hers. For a long few moments, there is just the sound of their breathing filling the room.

“I’m going to stop him,” Jon says quietly, suddenly, and then, “I won’t let him do it again,” he glances up at Georgie, “I need your help.”

She nods, of course, she does. It doesn’t matter how many years since she’s seen Jon, how different they both are, or how strange the circumstances. They made a promise and Georgie knows that if she ever needed it Jon would be there. Besides it’s to stop the Apocalypse, she likes the world how it is.

9

One moment Gerry is in the strange space of non-existence, not-death, a state of the terror of death suspended infinitely and the next he is in a familiar office. Gerry blinks glancing at his surroundings for a long few seconds until it clicks. Gertrude’s office, he’s in her office. Which means he’s back in England at least.

Someone coughs and Gerry tilts his head staring at the man who summoned him, he has dark hair threaded with grey, sunken eyes with deep bags, a host of scars so that he looks more scar than skin; Gerry can relate honestly.

The man watches him in silence there’s something sad to his expression and Gerry doesn’t need any pity thank you very much even if his life was practically one sorry affair after the other. He crosses his arms over his chest and opens his mouth to respond when the man says, “Hello, my name is Jon Sims, I’m the new Archivist.”

“So, she’s dead then,” Gerry says and if he could feel anything properly maybe he would be feeling some joy that the woman who bound him to the book is gone, or maybe decades-old grief for a surrogate of a mother he never got to have.

Jon nods his fingers stroking lightly over the cover of the book before he adds, “Yes, a year after you died.”

“One of her numerous enemies finally get her?” Gerry asks, morbidly (ha) curious about Gertrude’s demise. She was never going to die quietly of old age.

“In a sense, she tried to burn down the Archives and Elias wasn’t too pleased about it,” Jon replies with a shrug of his shoulders, his tone shifts at the mention of Elias, something cold, as cold as the death which holds Gerry in its grasp.

“So, why’d you summon me? Need information like the Hunters?” Gerry questions crossing his arms over his chest and glancing anywhere but the Archivist. From one owner to the next introducing your walking encyclopedia Gerry Keay.

“No.”

“No?” Gerry replies flabbergasted studying the man closer and wondering what else he could possibly supply.

Jon shakes his head running a hand through his hair he says, “I made a promise. If you’re agreeable I’ll burn your page, release you.”

“What?” Gerry asks quietly waiting for the words to properly sink in then adds, “Why?”

“I-I well it’s complicated but I promised to free you,” Jon replies scratching at a scar on his neck as he glances away from Gerry’s face biting his lip.

“And you don’t want anything in return?” Gerry questions studying the Archivist who looks tiny in his office.

Jon opens his mouth to reply but the door clicks open interrupting whatever he was going to say and admits a man with broad shoulders and a friendly face. The man blinks at Gerry before turning to Jon and says, “About ready boss? You said you wanted to move early, avoid the whole Unknowing thing and death if possible.”

“Yes, thank you, Tim, I just have to do this and then I’ll be ready. If you don’t mind can you double-check the detonators for me?” Jon replies with a warm smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and softens his features from something stern to something vulnerable.

“Sure, thing boss,” Tim says and with a wave in Gerry’s direction, he slips out and shuts the door behind him with a click.

“So, you’re trying to stop the Unknowing?” Gerry asks folding carefully into the chair on the other side of the desk and kicking one leg over the armrest.

Jon glances up as if startled from his thoughts and replies, “Yes. We’ll stop it.”

He sounds certain as if there’s not even a possibility of failure but the way the man stares at the door well Gertrude never really cared for her assistants, not really, but Jon sure as Hell seems to and it settles something in Gerry’s chest.

“Alright, feel free to burn my page,” Gerry says with forced casualness as if he hints how desperately he wants that it might be taken away. He took lessons from his childhood but Gerry certainly can’t say they were good ones.

Jon smiles warm and happy and says, “Alright. Goodbye Gerard.”

“My friends call me Gerry,” he says, the words just sort of slip out and if possible, Jon’s smile goes wider and his eyes glow a bit.

“Rest Gerry,” Jon says and then nothing.

10

Daisy scowls glaring at the radio and wishing Basira would let her put the Archers on, she could technically, Basira is flicking through the notes the Archivist left her and isn’t even listening to the station. But they are waiting, watching the wax museum a few streets away as the man asked.

She isn’t even certain why they are following Sims’ plan, perhaps it is because a part of her whispers _pack_ when she sees him, maybe it is the way he sees through her, _knows_ her and yet passes no judgement, embraces the blood she’s shed. The scar on his throat calls to her and catches her eye when she’s not careful.

Basira shifts and sets the papers down with a sigh, she is nervous hiding it in the way she fiddles with her hijab and the way she flicks restlessly through the papers. Daisy can’t really blame her, not when they’re dealing with a frankly ridiculous number of explosives, and a ritual attempting to end the world.

In some ways, it feels like a normal Tuesday on the job and in others, ever since Sims entered their lives with Gertrude Robinson’s corpse things have never felt the same. A part of her still hungers for the chase, but it isn’t Sims she’s after, not anymore.

Basira’s phone rings and with a glance at Daisy she answers the call putting it on speakerphone, the voice of Sasha, one of the assistants says roughly, “The Unknowing it’s- it’s started, I can feel it from across the street,” a crackle of static, the faint sound of circus music in the background, “I everyone’s accounted for so far, except for Jon. Fuck, the idiot said he would be fine I don’t know if I believe him.”

“How long do you estimate until the explosives go off?” Basira questions gently, she is not usually gentle but Sasha apparently bought Basira tea from the store down the street she loves which is the quickest way to her heart. Daisy doesn’t mind, not really, she knows where she stands.

“I- It should be in,” a crackle of static the music is getting louder, Sasha’s voice is frantic, “it’ll be soon, I would…”

The call ends abruptly. Daisy shares a glance with Basira and pulls out the radio, barks out an order for as many sectioned paramedics and cops they can spare. They haven’t warned the higher-ups, they’re still under scrutiny for Leitner and Robinson, but they’ll listen to this.

Daisy sets the radio down carefully and glances at Basira, she stares back and it is just the two of them like so many late-night stakeouts, or over bottles of vodka talking about whatever supernatural horror they’d seen.

The explosion is deafening. It is as if all the noise in the world has been captured and suddenly released.

Daisy claps her hands over her ears feeling the car shake with the force of the explosion. When it's quiet, the ringing in ears died down enough that she can actually think she glances at Basira and nods once. They exit the car together, Daisy’s hand on the hunting knife her grandfather gave her, the one she carries everywhere.

The fire is visible even down the block and in the far-off distance beyond the crackle of flames she can hear a siren. The air is filled with the scent of burning flesh, ash, and something else, an unfamiliar scent.

Closer, Daisy can see the damage, where the wax museum once stood there is nothing but a crater in the ground, bodies that aren’t bodies lie still on the pockmarked concrete and the flames consume what is left of the structure.

“Detective!” Someone calls out and they whirl around to see Sasha, there is soot on her features, her hair is in a tight ponytail behind her head and tears carve trails through the ash.

“The ambulance should be here soon was anyone left inside?” Basira demands as Daisy’s eyes survey the scene, she catches a twitch of movement near her ankle and sinks the knife through the skull of something that’s definitely not human.

Sasha flinches slightly at the spurt of blood too dark to be red and says, “Tim said he got out but I don’t see him. Jon- he didn’t respond.”

“Sasha!” a voice calls out from across the street and Tim Stoker stumbles out of a nearby building, he is bleeding heavily from his left arm which hangs limply at his side.

“Tim!” Sasha calls back and pulls the man into her arms with a soft sound.

Daisy turns her gaze on their surroundings and with a nod to Basira holds her knife tight in her grasp. She dispatches five more, _not_ humans, making sure not to pay attention for too long to the misshapen features or the missing ones.

As she’s picking her way through some rubble, she hears a groan.

Daisy pauses, it was a particularly human-sounding groan. Sighing, Daisy carefully shifts the rubble away, piece by piece until she can see a man lying in a crater, almost at the epicentre of where the blast would have been strongest.

It’s Sims because of course, it is.

“Basira found him!” Daisy calls over her shoulder even as she crouches by the man. Sims’ clothes are torn and in the faint evening light his scars look silvery, his chest isn’t moving and Daisy confirms her suspicions a moment later when there’s no pulse beneath her fingers.

Rubble clatters behind her and a moment later Basira appears with Tim and Sasha behind her.

“Oh God, is he?” Sasha questions one hand clasped over her mouth as she sinks to her knees beside Sims. Daisy nods once and carefully steps away to stand beside Basira still keeping an eye on their surroundings.

Tim crouches beside her and rests his fingers against Sims’ pulse point with the same result if the frown on his features is any indication, he shakes his head and said, “I know he told us this was a possibility but its still strange.”

Right. Basira mentioned something about it being exceedingly hard to kill avatars, of which Sims was. Sasha wipes at the tears on her cheeks and Daisy can see a short distance away that the paramedics and backup have arrived.

“What are we supposed to tell Martin?” Sasha questions softly as she holds Jon’s hand. Daisy squints and notices that beneath closed eyelids, his eyes are moving rapidly.

“That Jon died and he’ll be fine,” Tim replies and waves over a paramedic his eyes never leaving Sims.

Basira tilts her head and questions, “Why isn’t Martin here? Jon didn’t mention that in the plans he sent over.”

“Needed to distract Elias, he can only look in so many places at once,” Sasha replies and her voice is hard even as she steps carefully away from Jon’s body and to the paramedic adds, “He’s alive, there might not be a pulse but trust me.”

The paramedic looks dubious but nods and beckons the others over with a stretcher. Daisy watches them load Sims’ body into the ambulance for a long moment Basira’s hand clenched tight in her own.

11

“I got your ‘message’ Archivist,” Oliver states as he slips into the hospital room, it is the sort of off-white private hospital room that Oliver doesn’t particularly care for. The Archivist lies in a bed in the centre of the room, his form looks fragile surrounded by white and the scars on his skin look livid. He is not covered by any sign of death that Oliver can see, it is strange but not wholly unexpected.

The Eyes dotting the Archivist’s body blink open and focus on him staring past him, into him, through him, knowing him. It is an unsettling feeling and yet in equal measures strangely pleasing.

There are flowers beside the gurney, livid pinks, blues, and whites, the heart monitor is silent. The only sign of life the rapid movement of eyes beneath closed lids. Oliver sighs and settles in the chair, “I see that your assistants have been reading statements to you. You could wake any time but you were waiting for me weren’t you Archivist?”

The eyes swerve to study him and blink once, it's as much of an acknowledgement Oliver expects he will get from the man.

Sighing Oliver twirls one of his dreads around his fingers and adds, “I’ll do it. The End doesn’t normally interfere but Jonah Magnus has been a thorn in its side for a long time. You know, I can taste the death on you,” the feeling of being watched grows, Oliver continues, “So much death and fear, I suppose that’s to be expected from the Archive though isn’t it?”

Rising to his feet, Oliver places a tape at the end of the bed and says, “Here a little treat as a sign of thanks. I suppose I’ll be seeing you, Archivist.”

The eyes blink shut and as Oliver pauses in the doorway, he can hear the faint sound of breathing begin to fill the room. The End is patient, it has waited for Jonah Magnus for a few centuries, barely a drop in the flow of time, but it is more than happy to claim him sooner rather than later.

12

Peter Lukas likes being in charge of the Magnus Institute, perhaps it would be more accurate to say he likes the privilege of being in charge, how isolated the position is (he tried to recruit one of the Archive assistants but they are a rather stubborn bunch, he thought Blackwood would have made an easy target).

He is not a fan of the paperwork or really actually any of the work far more familiar with running a ship then dealing with inner department disputes. For the most part, Peter leaves those pesky things to his assistant, a lonely man who isn’t even trying not to isolate himself, it’s a bit too easy honestly.

Peter sighs glancing around Elias’ office, it is of course impeccably designed to look both empty and ornate with a large desk and too many windows, all with eye-shaped glass panes. So, this is where most of their funding goes then. Peter doesn’t care, not really, he doesn’t have a vested interest in the family business, or the head for money really.

It is a favour that has even placed him here at the Institute while Elias flees what he has fondly termed mutiny. Peter isn’t all too fond of the term but having never dealt with it himself wonders if there is perhaps something positive to the whole affair.

He wonders where Elias is now. Perhaps he has boarded the Tundra as Peter suggested and is lonely at sea in the best possible way, or maybe he is in one of his numerous safehouses watching Peter struggle to manage the Institute.

What had he said before he left? Peter had been a bit distracted by Martin and the scent of burnt paper. Something about his Archivist? Yes, something about the man hunting him, though Peter isn’t quite certain why.

He should really meet the man; he’s heard that the Archivist had woken from his short coma (two weeks is short yes?). Perhaps he’ll do one of those what are they called? Ah yes, a performance review. It’s not like he can fire any of them in any case.

There is a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Peter calls out signing yet another important sheet, something to do with the budget, or maybe a leave of absence.

The door glides open on smoothly oiled hinges and the Archivist steps in. He is a short man, dark hair more grey than anything else, scarred, and tired, his many eyes focus unerringly on Peter.

“Ah, Archivist I was just considering coming to see you all down in the Archives,” Peter responds with a welcoming smile as the Archivist nods once and doesn’t sit. He almost reminds Peter of a cat, circling the edges of its prey.

“I see,” The Archivist replies and Peter has no doubt that the man does in fact see. The Archivist tilts his head and adds in a cold lifeless voice, “You tried to take my assistant.”

“Blackwood?” Peter replies feeling a frisson of unease run down his spine, it is almost fear, the Archivist nods and he continues, “I was in need of an assistant and thought he might be quite capable.”

“There is also the matter of your bet with Elias,” The Archivist states in the same tone Elias uses when he Knows. Peter hums stroking the wisps of his beard and nods saying nothing in response.

“Yes, what can I help you with Archivist?” Peter asks, perhaps it was a bad idea to draw the man’s attention. The eyes that watch him are unnerving in their focus and while Elias is a powerful man, the Archivist makes him look weak.

“Where is Elias?” The words crackle with compulsion filling Peter’s head with static, he presses his lips together and tries to ignore it. It burns thick and hot, painfully crawling up his throat and pressing behind his teeth.

“The Panopticon, he’s waiting for you,” The words drop from his lips heavy as stones. He wonders where the words came from, he can only suspect Elias.

The Archivist nods and with a tired sigh says, “I thought so.”

“It’s a trap you realise,” Peter responds carefully, chidingly.

The Archivist’s many eyes blink and then they begin to glow, filling the room with a light that sends a bolt of fear through Peter’s chest as the Archivist replies, “Yes, I know. It would be wise of you Peter Lukas to leave the Institute. You are not welcome here.”

The light dims and the Archivist nods once ignoring the way Peter’s hands shake and his breath rattles from his chest. The Archivist turns and without a word leaves the room, the sensation of being watched, however, does not. Peter sends an email about his sudden resignation and does not stay to see what will happen to the Magnus Institute. Apologies Elias.

13

Jonah waits in the Panopticon; it is quiet beneath the city and he can be still for once. His old body, his first body, is in the centre of the room, burdened with age and staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Jonah brushes back the greying roots of his hair and presses down the front of his suit. In a few years, he will need to find a new body, well that is if everything doesn’t go to plan.

He’s been playing the long game for a while; he can afford to wait.

Jonah doesn’t particularly want to wait though, not when his Archivist is ready. He wasn’t able to See it before but now he can taste it on the air, the marks of the other entities which are pressed into Jon’s skin, his soul, like a brand. It is sweet, like the finest wine, a confirmation that he has sought since his Archivist woke from the sudden coma.

He shifts, his expression twisting in displeasure as he thinks of his Archivist’s expression, the eyes which blossomed across his skin a clear sign of their patron’s favour. It does not matter, in the end, Jonah will get what he wants. If not, he’ll kill Jon and start again, both Sasha and Martin have been touched by quite a few entities after all.

Something presses against Jonah’s Sight, the words of Peter’s apologies settling inside his head, the man has been useful, Jonah will say that much. It is time then.

Funny, how Jonah has been patient for so long and now that his Archivist is near, that the time of their triumph is near, all that patience has evaporated. He feels as if he can barely stand still, all the energy in his body gathered together in one singular moment.

Faintly, he hears the sound of footsteps, his sight rarely works in these tunnels, as if seen through an old tv, but he has no doubt it is Jon. The footsteps draw near and Jonah smiles as his Archivist enters the Panopticon, the marks of the entities seem to radiate from his skin and Jon’s many eyes are locked on Jonah.

“Archivist, so glad you were able to make it,” Jonah greets following Jon’s gaze to his old body.

Jon returns his attention to Jonah for a long moment before he nods once and replies, “Of course, Jonah.”

“I see you’re all caught up, will you tell me now what you Know?” Jonah asks curious, his Archivist returned from that coma, so early in the game, with too many eyes and all too much knowledge.

“I Know about the ritual,” His Archivist replies softly, that voice of his echoes around the large room as Jon stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Yes,” Jonah breathes and continues, “It will be glorious Jon, don’t you see? A world of fear, the Eye at the centre of it all, watching everything, knowing everything.”

“No,” Jon says simply staring into Jonah’s eyes as he continues, “I saw the results of that ritual, I brought about the end of the world, there was so much fear and I watched, I saw, I knew. And you know what? It all meant nothing, the immortality you seek became its own downfall, you created a closed circuit, no new humans, but death, the end, cannot be stopped as easily as hunger. Instead of preventing the Extinction, you created it, birthed its existence into something far more powerful than a nuclear explosion,” Jon laughs a broken laugh and with a shake of his head says quietly, “You didn’t win, you lost.”

“We could do better, imagine it, Archivist you could rule at my side prevent the end, we could create a deathless world,” Jonah replies flinging out his arms around him, the eyes that follow are beginning to fill the air, the Eye itself is watching.

Jon tips his head back and laughs, it is a broken sound before he straightens and pulls his hands out of his pockets, in one hand Jonah catches a flash of gold, the other something red as Jon says, “I’m wasting my time. I made a deal with the end you know? This time you’ll stay dead.”

Jonah moves forward a knife that he had tucked away for such occasions in his hands. Jon doesn’t even pretend at surprise, lets the knife bite into his throat above the scar on his throat as he hisses, “I won’t hesitate to kill you, Archivist, I can start again, better even.”

Jon nods once and says quietly, “While Martin was burning the statements did you watch the tunnels?”

“Did I what?” Jonah questions confused, Jon smiles and the eyes covering his body bloom and begin to glow.

There is the sound of a lighter flicking and a clink as it hits the ground. Jonah turns his head his hand still pressing the knife to Jon’s throat as he watches fire lick a path towards his corpse. It goes up quickly as if it's been doused in gasoline. Oh.

Jonah whips around pain bubbling behind his eyes, wisps of smoke are curling off his skin but he can still do this, he can survive this, “I’ll kill you, Archivist.”

“I am not something you can kill Jonah Magnus. Ceaseless Watcher bear witness to this end,” Jon intones and as Jonah’s blade bites into Jon’s throat a match is lit, it catches on Jonah’s suit. It isn’t possible, the Eye wouldn’t, he can’t, not like this. He stumbles away, smoke curling off his shoulders and tries to douse the flames but they are catching, catching, his skin becomes brittle and begins to flake off, he screams once and is silent.

14

“Jon?” A voice calls out accompanied by the sound of footsteps and then with a fond sigh, “How many times have I told you, if you’re tired, we have a perfectly serviceable bed dear, you’re going to get a crick in your neck again.”

Jon blinks one eye open and peers up from the couch at Martin, soft sunlight streams in from a nearby window bathing him in light, he looks like an angel, like something precious and Jon’s breath catches in his throat. Rubbing at his eyes Jon plaintively grunts out, “Then the Negotiator won’t curl up beside me.”

“Heaven forbid he sit at your feet instead,” Martin says with a shake of his head and kneels beside Jon and presses a kiss to his forehead and then one to his lips. The Negotiator chirps, indignant at being ignored and Martin laughs and pulls back to run his fingers through their cat’s soft fur.

“How was work?” Jon asks as he rubs at his eyes with one hand, his voice is hoarse the last mark Jonah Magnus left, Jon doesn’t mind not if he can still tell everyone how much he loves them. Martin’s eyes crinkle and he runs his hands through Jon’s hair.

“You were there, I saw you,” Martin replies running his hand gently over the curve of Jon’s cheek.

He makes a sleepy sound and replies, “Yes, but I took a nap on the couch in the breakroom for most of the day.”

“I’m telling Sasha, just because she can’t fire you doesn’t mean she won’t yell at you for not doing your work,” Martin says lightly, not even chastising just commenting. For the most part, they all take it pretty easy. Jon thinks they’ve earned it after saving the world, it’s not like they could abandon the job entirely anyways, especially Jon.

“I know, just been tired lately,” Jon replies softly and leans forward to press a kiss to Martin’s cheek feeling his stubble brush against his cheek.

Martin sighs expression twisted up in concern for a long moment as he stares at Jon before he says, “Tea? We can go on a walk tonight, maybe go to that park you like?”

“Mmm tea is good, I’d like that,” Jon replies the soft edges of sleep still clinging to his conscious as the Negotiator burrows closer to his chest.

Martin rises to his feet with a last lingering kiss and calls out over his shoulder, “So, what are you making for dinner?”

“I thought it was your turn to cook?” Jon replies with a pout stroking his fingers lazily through the Negotiator’s fur, the sound of purring fills the room and he melts a bit more into the couch.

“Are you cooking for everyone when they come over Friday night?” Martin asks and Jon groans staring at his husband for a long moment, Martin adds, “You know Melanie and Georgie are looking forward to your food, little Sammie is practically addicted to your nan bread. Plus, Basira says Daisy’s agreed to make her ginger cookies.”

“Fine, fine,” Jon agrees with a wave of his hand and frowns for a moment before he catches sight of Martin’s fond smile.

“I’m thinking pasta?” Martin says, raising a brow at Jon. He nods burrowing deeper into the couch cushions for another nap. Martin shakes his head and says quietly, “I love you, Jon.”

“Love you too Martin.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! I had a lot of fun exploring the different characterizations and also how the changes worked, I also hope you enjoyed the ending. Comments are always super appreciated, thank you!!


End file.
